


Go To My Head

by liketogetlost



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketogetlost/pseuds/liketogetlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's alcohol involved. There's always alcohol involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go To My Head

There's alcohol involved. There's always alcohol involved.

It's the exact reason they leave his flat, his party, for more drinks. Even though he has that extra bottle of wine in the back of his pantry, it doesn't matter, and how everyone pretends not to look at each other when she offers to come with him to help pay for it. Because he doesn't need the money or the company, or the drinks for that matter, but everyone goes back to talking and laughing and they'll probably all talk about them once they leave but Billie puts on his coat instead so he can't think about any of that right now.

Thank God the husband hadn't come along.

So he's coatless and cold and she's beaming up at him, sleeves of his too long and fingertips peeking out of bottom and he wishes the shop wasn't so close by. She stumbles a bit on the pavement, wine dictating her movements and he catches her around the waist, leaves his arm there with the excuse of the chill. She doesn't object, even moves in closer, and it makes walking extremely more difficult especially with the alcohol but neither of them mind.

Walking side by side like that, in the crisp London night, he can almost pretend she has no one to go home to and the way she squeezes his side like that really means something.

At the shop she goes straight for the wine and he dawdles by the snack aisle. She catches up with him and grabs a packet of Pocky Chocolate sticks, "something to suck on", and he can feel her coy smile even as she walks towards the register, all dancing feet and whistling lips he's thinking of licking chocolate off of.

The cashier is new and he looks at them both like they're people he should know but he thinks the bloke's not really a sci fi fan so he's not worried about being recognized. She asks for a pack of fags and before he can say anything she tells him not to say a word, she's quitting again tomorrow. He pokes her in the back and smirks, "that's the problem with you Piper, no willpower", before grabbing the two bottles of red in the paper bag and walking out the door with a bell chime, not waiting for her just to be fresh.

She's smoking before the door closes and the stale wisps billow around her face and probably settle on his coat, no matter he knows he'll wind up smelling like smoke all day tomorrow and thinking of her.

With the fag and the wine he can't hold her close anymore. Goes for her hand instead, which isn't right and he knows it but he can get away with it tonight. He feels her sigh in his fingertips and hears the sizzle of the cigarette on the wet pavement before she grabs his hand with her other and rests her chin on his shoulder.

The party seems like a distant memory and there's nothing he'd like less than to return to those knowing looks and empty conversation. She's warm and happy and hot breath against his neck beside him and he pulls her into the alley next to his building without thinking at all.

The wine crashes to the ground and she gasps, laughs into his mouth when he pushes her against the brick and runs his hands up under his coat into her shirt. Finds her breasts and feels, touches, kisses her like there's nothing wrong with it. She wraps her arms around his neck and a leg around his waist and when he feels her thigh there's something wet on it, a splash of red wine.

Her tongue tastes like Parliments and like some candy he'd forgotten he'd loved. She keeps pushing closer to him, right where it counts and "thank God for skirts", she laughs against his throat and bites, he finds her knickers and pushes them to the side. Slides two fingers inside, quick, and he swears they'll hear her moan at the party. Her fingers grip his hair, pull, her hips work with the rhythm of his hand and somewhere along the way she takes him out of his trousers, strokes him slow and tight like she knows he likes, and that's it. He has to fuck her, here. In an alley outside his flat because she's there and she's wet and she's sucking on his Adam's apple like a Pocky chocolate stick and when he does, slide deep enough to rival that last moan, he slips in the puddle of the wine and has to catch himself. And he has one hand gripping her bottom and one against the brick and she's laughing at him as he fucks her hard, and fast, and he laughs, too. Because it's all so ridiculous but somehow right, and he kisses her again and they keep laughing into each other's mouths until they can't catch their breath long enough to laugh.

They go back to the shop, where she buys another pack of fags and he gets two more bottles of wine. No one acknowledges her red stained leg or the dark red stain on his throat.

His coat smells like smoke for a week.


End file.
